


In the Wind

by enigmaticblue



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce misses his lab.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt "loss of job/income"

When Bruce walks out of his lab for the last time, he knows exactly what he’s giving up—or he thinks he does. He knows he’s going on the run, that he has to leave everything behind, and he’s dealt with poverty before. Bruce has no illusions that it’s going to be easy, but he might have underestimated how hard it would be.

 

Bruce hasn’t been without an income since he was a teenager, and he’d had credit cards since his undergraduate days. He quickly learns that bank accounts and credit cards are off limits, and maybe he should have known before, but he’s new to being a fugitive.

 

He’s careful with his money, but since he doesn’t start off with much, it doesn’t take him far, and he doesn’t always make the best choices. In Mexico, he overpays for his motel room because he doesn’t know enough Spanish to negotiate for a better rate—and he doesn’t know he’s being overcharged. And because he has no real way to cook, he ends up getting most of his meals from street vendors, which costs him more in the long run.

 

The Army catches up with Bruce in Ciudad Victoria, arriving in black SWAT gear at his motel. Bruce barely has time to go out a window, ducking down alleys and dodging cars and bikes, trying to hold back the change long enough to get to a less populated area, in order to minimize collateral damage.

 

He doesn’t quite make it. Bruce hears a gunshot, and a shard of brick cuts his cheek, and then it’s all over.

 

When Bruce wakes up, he’s lying in a pasture, surrounded by grass and cactus, and he supposes he ought to be grateful that he’s not lying _on top_ of a cactus. His pants—the only clothing that remains—are in tatters, and he’s lost what few possessions he owns.

 

He’s left behind what little money had remained, too.

 

Bruce buries his face in his hands and considers his options. He can’t go back; the Army is sure to have swept his motel room and confiscated his things. He has no way of replacing his clothes, or his shoes, or _anything_.

 

He misses his lab; he misses his _job_. Bruce misses the normal life he’d had before he’d been stupid enough to try to super soldier serum on himself. He misses Betty, and what they’d had.

 

Bruce steels himself, and then picks his way out of the field, holding up his tattered pants with one hand, moving towards the sound of cars he can just barely make out. By the time he’s found the asphalt road, his feet hurt, and he’s brushed up against at least one cactus that’s sunk its spikes into his flesh.

 

The hot sun beats down against his bare back as he trudges along the side of the road, sticking out a thumb every time a vehicle passes. Eventually, an old man pulls over. “ _Está usted bien_?”*

 

Bruce grimaces. “No. Uh, _habla Inglés?_ ”

 

“Very little,” he replies. “ _Lo siento, señor_.”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “No, that’s— _bien._ Uh, _puede_ …” Bruce searches his memory for his rudimentary Spanish, and determines to focus a little more attention on learning the language. “ _Conducir_?”

 

“ _Sí, sí,_ ” the old man replies. “ _Voy a Tula_.”

 

“ _Bien_.” Bruce has no idea where Tula is, or how far away they are, but he doesn’t care. It’s a city, or a town, and he’ll have a much better chance replacing his clothes there.

 

And in Tula, Bruce can find a way to disappear, to cover his tracks, and to find some way to make a little money.

 

~~~~~

 

Bruce begs for the first time in Tula, letting go of what’s left of his tattered pride. He puts his hands out and keeps his head down, feeling the occasional drop of coins against his palms. When he thinks he has enough, Bruce finds a vendor selling clothes and another selling shoes.

 

It’s a stroke of luck that he purchases the items at the end of the day, because he discovers that merchants are more willing to negotiate, eager to make a final sale before the market closes. He files that information away for the future and pulls on his new clothing and shoes in an alleyway.

 

Bruce doesn’t bother trying to get a room that night; he doesn’t have enough money for one, and he’s not entirely sure that it’s a good idea.

 

He’s beginning to think there’s not much that will kill him now; he can risk a couple of days on the street.

 

Bruce hitches a ride out of town with a farmer two days later, traveling from Tula to Tepeji, and from there finds another ride to Mexico City.

 

The capitol is easy to get lost in, and he finds a cheap room with a tiny kitchen, and a job at one of the local factories on the strength of his knowledge of electrical engineering—as rudimentary as it is.

 

In short, Bruce notices a problem in the line, and offers to fix it in broken Spanish, and when he does, he has the job.

 

For the first few weeks, all Bruce cares about is earning enough to keep body and soul together, and keep a roof over his head. Once he’s got that, he can start focusing on a cure.

 

And that’s when he _really_ starts missing his lab.

 

He has to cobble together a centrifuge and a microscope; he has to beg, borrow, and steal supplies. Eventually, he jury-rigs a computer, too, and begins the careful search for someone who can be trusted to help.

 

It’s not a bad life, at least up until the point he has to flee again when the Army gets too close—and then he has to start all over again, heading north this time, hoping to throw Ross off his scent that way.

 

And it’s always the same—Bruce begs or steals or finds someone who will hire him, and he’s constantly scrabbling to hide, to find food, to outpace the Army goons. He gets better at hiding, and better at starting over, no matter where he is, but he’s tired all the time, so very tired, and he longs for his old life.

 

When he gets low enough, Bruce tries to eat a bullet, and doesn’t die, and he gives up on that, too.

 

Bruce lets go of the last vestiges of his old life, of all hope of a cure or a release, and tries not to think about what he’d once had, in favor of just making it through the next moment.

 

And he’s successful, right up until he meets Tony Stark.

 

~~~~~

 

“I thought we were going to the Port Authority,” Bruce objects as Tony navigates the New York City traffic.

 

Tony flashes a quick grin. “I told you I’d drop you off, but I didn’t say _when_.”

 

Bruce frowns. “Tony—”

 

“Think of it like informed consent,” Tony wheedles. “You haven’t seen the labs yet.”

 

Bruce swallows hard. “I don’t need to see the labs, because I can’t stay.”

 

“No, you _won’t_ stay; there’s a difference.” Tony pulls into the garage below Stark Tower, which is miraculously undamaged. “I want you to know what you’re giving up.”

 

Bruce sets his jaw. “I know what I’m giving up.”

 

And he does, because he’s walked away from it before, and it’s no different now.

 

Tony shakes his head. “No, you really don’t.”

 

Bruce could demand that Tony let him leave. Hell, Bruce could just walk right out of the Tower lobby and _walk_ to the Port Authority. He doesn’t do either of those things, because he’s curious, and because he finds it far too easy to do exactly as Tony asks.

 

And, to be honest, he wants to see the labs, even though it’s a reminder of everything he’s lost and left behind.

 

“There’s some repair work to do,” Tony admits as they take the elevator up. “But a couple of floors were untouched, so you’ll get an idea.”

 

Bruce trails Tony down the hallway to a secured room, where he unlocks the door with a handprint and retinal scan, and leads Bruce inside.

 

Dropping his bag just inside the door, Bruce surveys the equipment and instruments, the gleaming floor and walls, and he feels some of the ever-present tension bleed out of him. Even though this space isn’t his, even though he has to leave, it almost feels like coming home.

 

Tony slings an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. “What did I tell you? It’s Candyland.”

 

Bruce shakes his head. “It’s great, I’ll give you that.”

 

“So, stay,” Tony coaxes. “I’ll have my lawyers draw up a contract. I’ll pay you a consulting fee, I’ll even let you keep whatever patents you come up with—which is very generous, and I only say that because I like you.”

 

Bruce smiles wistfully. “You know I can’t.”

 

“Why not?” Tony demands. “SHIELD isn’t hunting you; the Army isn’t going to come after you. You can let yourself have this, Bruce.”

 

Tony’s arm hasn’t moved, and Bruce can feel his body heat, and smells his (probably expensive) cologne, and Bruce honestly can’t remember how long it’s been since he’d had someone touch him so casually.

 

Not that it’s surprising, given that Tony’s also the one who’d poked Bruce with an electric prod on the helicarrier. Tony isn’t one to keep his distance, even if he should, even if everyone else does.

 

“And what happens when I trash the place?” Bruce counters.

 

“You have a lid on it,” Tony replies, his grip tightening just a bit. “And I promise I will get you whatever you need to _keep_ a lid on it, including a giant bag of weed.”

 

There’s a part of Bruce that tells him he needs to shake Tony off and walk out, to find the next bus or train or plane out of New York City and forget that this was even on offer.

 

But there’s another, bigger part of him that wants to take what Tony is offering, that wants at least a part of the life he’d had before the accident.

 

He can’t have his old life, but he can have this—at least for a little while.

 

“Okay,” Bruce says, the temptation too great to resist. “We’ll give it a trial run.”

 

Tony claps him on the shoulder. “Great! Come on. We’ll have a drink to celebrate.”

 

He steers Bruce out of the lab, already talking about what they’re going to work on first, and detailing future plans, but Bruce glances over his shoulder as the door slides shut behind him.

 

Tony breaks off his monologue to say knowingly, “It’s going to be there tomorrow, Big Man. The only real question is whether _you_ will be.”

 

Bruce lets out a breath, feeling strangely exhilarated. “Yeah. I will be. At least tomorrow.”

 

“Good enough,” Tony replies and resumes his chatter.

 

And Bruce begins to let himself believe that he might have this, that he might reclaim a little bit of his old life, his old self.

 

Maybe, just maybe, Bruce can have a measure of security again.

**Author's Note:**

> *Translations:
> 
> “Are you okay?”
> 
> “Do you speak English?”
> 
> “I’m sorry, sir.”
> 
> “Good…can...drive?”
> 
> “Yes, yes, I am going to Tula.”


End file.
